


Nothing but time

by Zimraphel



Series: An anti-Athrabeth [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimraphel/pseuds/Zimraphel
Summary: Eternity takes a long time.('However long the History of the Elves might become before it ended, it would be an object of too limited range. To be perpetually 'imprisoned in a tale' (as they said), even if it was a very great tale ending triumphantly, would become a torment.')
Relationships: Aegnor | Ambaráto/Andreth | Saelind
Series: An anti-Athrabeth [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042980
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Nothing but time

**Author's Note:**

> Aegnor sits upon the shores of Valinor and looks out over the Shadowy Seas, imagining a further shore.

I sit upon these shores and stare at the far one. Or I would, that is, if I could see anything but sea and sea beyond the sea. What remains of us is outside of time, outside of reality even perhaps. With each passing century --we have long since given up on counting years, fleeting as they are and unmarked by blemishes to distinguish one from another-- what we are seems farther from what is. 

Flowers bloom in perfect harmony, and bloom on. If they fade at all, we do not see it; maybe they do not, maybe we have just given up on noticing anything that lasts shorter than a century. Even our dogs live longer than the greatest of your kings, and from what little news we can glean they might be more fit to rule. Then again, who knows how dependable an immortal eagle's tales are? They are winged and strange to what passes below. Anything that is for as long as we are would be.

Still, a feathered spirit for centuries accustomed to carrying off hapless rabbits should perhaps not be one's sole source of news on the progress of history. I have noticed there are often more rabbits in these stories than I would prefer, and I am unsure how many kings I missed out on for the sake of the tale of a nest perched on a perilous cliff-face. But I digress. 

-

It is true that I did not truly love the woman at the time I left her, though I was certainly convinced I did. Which was why I could give her up; I didn't. I carried her memory with me, and much of her had only ever existed in memory and mirror-image to me. Even when she was still living and breathing before me I already loved the memory of her as I made it, no moment left untinged by nostalgia even before it ended. I loved what was mirrored in a star-studded pool, vague and distant as the moon; her twin-image all the same. Reflected light caught in her hair, her shape reflected rippling in the breeze like she was made of something less substantial and prone to decay. But even that cool deep pool and all its eternal stars are long gone now, buried first beneath layers of dead leaves, a dreary marchland, drained again for the sake of a farmer's plow, then forever sunk beneath the waves. The eagles tell me (for I still ask for news of my pool, as though it holds onto the last starlit reflection of my beloved beneath layers and layers of muck) that after sea sweet ice came, dragging along clay and gravel, stones, carving deep sinuous lines like so many smiles into the surface of the earth where we once stood. Then sand, and dunes, and sand again. A new lake fed by the meltwater, its memories are of sun and snow. My beloved's name is unknown to the river-spirit, the stars we saw reflected as lost to it as I am to the world, alone with my memories at last.

-

Death came quick as a sigh and as silently. When I saw its early announcement in the subtle lines of my beloved's smile, when the sound of her heart would drive me to despair as I imagined it stopping when we danced so wildly, perhaps beyond what she could comfortably endure-- death seemed foreign and enormous, and it was not for me. When I was on the battlefield, it was all around, abrupt and bloody, but never for me. It seemed a different thing entirely, unconnected to the failure of mortal bodies and the ever-ongoing process of all that falls apart. I suppose part of our bravery then was our utter inability to understand the finality of the thing gave out to countless orcs, men, trespassers, criminals. Death was something I dealt out. Everyone assumed my mother-name hinted at the fire in my eyes when I raged on the battlefield, and not without reason.

It was an easy mistake to make, and I made it for years myself. I stood on the battlefield often, and my eyes reflected that familiar, fell Valinorean light that did not know much of mercy. We did not know much of mercy in part because we could not afford to, at first, besieged as we were from all sides. But then also because it did not understand what pains and decay mortals are subject to in life, or how fragile a soul so bound to a body can be. What I did know of it I learned from my beloved, and it only made me more eager never to see more of it. When I fought the enemy, there was never room for nuance, or names for that matter. I think we pretended not to notice orcs too had families, and were presumably capable of feeling the suffering we inflicted upon them. The mangled elves they had once been were easier to slay than facing what had become of them, or how much they still wanted to live despite it all. Killing them felt like a just act of mercy, or rather like cleaning out a drain pipe. The unfortunate fact is that there was us, and then there was simply a sea of blood which I was expanding, and for a time it kept us safe. Eventually we became part of it, and then the entire continent was wiped from the map and from memory and sunk beneath those darkened waves, as if none of it ever happened at all. Reduced to myth and then less then myth. Even the possibility of our lives there now seems unlikely, and it is sometimes hard to understand why we fought to defend them so.

Either way, it was an easy mistake to make. Even when it announced itself in a dream, death was always a surprise for us, a slightly unreal, sudden infringing upon by something we stood outside. Even that black night when I mounted my horse for one last time, knowing full-well to what sort of world I was abandoning my loved ones, I suppose I had no idea. I was certain my slaying would at least contribute to the possibility of her peace, or so I told myself. My final gift of safety to both of our peoples.

I was told later that she may have been felled by that same sudden battle, already unrecogniseable to me before it ever touched her. Certainly the stars had already become invisible by then, clouded by the breath of Morgoth's dragons. 

Later, because there is a later for us at all. What we underwent in those killing fields was as painful an experience as can be, the burning and tearing of flesh and the slow gnawing on still-living limbs by stray orcs on lunch-break wherever an unfortunate soldier lay immobilised. My own death was quicker than that; it was a moment of distraction that had my head rolling at the feet of my horrified brother. His would follow soon after, but there would be no brother there to see it. Though Elvish spirits are attached to bodies quite firmly and some of us have been known to tarry, mine sped away from all of this as quickly as it could, leaving my poor horse to be eaten by some ambitious orc-captain, and to do to my body --god knows what. 

I was released from Mandos some time later, presumably held back some time for my part in the rebellion of the Noldor. As a spirit one does not truly experience time, so as a punishment it did not make much sense. The ones who were punished for my youthful indiscretions were my family and friends, who eagerly if anxiously awaited my return. I think they feared I would refuse to leave at all, and hang about that dread place like a teenager sulking in his room forever. That seems to be what Finrod expected, at least. In fact I think this is what he promised to my Andreth, even if it was not quite what she wanted of me. My memories of these years are vague and only shattered by the bright flash of her, passing through. Some of her longed to stay, even where it should not have been to start with. She truly did not want to go the wherever she was destined to go, and somehow had enough strength left in her to find me. She was as beautiful as my starlit memory of her, and finally as untouched by time. But she never had a talent for singing, or magic, and no Maian queens graced her lineage. The quickness of her mind, the skill of her fingers, the dark pool of her hair--or the memory of it-- nothing remains of them now. When she was torn from me, I knew she would not come back. The halls felt cold and dark then. I am named for a flame, and perhaps I finally did consume her. But no light seemed to be left in the world for me, and it did not matter how many times I cried out. Eternity takes a long time, and I no longer think there is a reason to be so sure this world will ever end. 

-

And so here I am, sat upon the cliff at the edge of the world. I look down to the silver-white beach, glittering with precious stones, and the sea it embraces, bluer than any jewel on mortal shores. The sea sighs like she remembers, but reveals nothing. Countless ages have passed; stranger and stranger bones wash upon these shores, the result of whichever unfortunate mortal or animal steers themselves too far into enchantment and slowly drifts out of the real. Nothing changeable can remain here, with us who live in a slow, blessed memory.

The sea has lifted us out of the world, where the horizon is the curve of a smile that never reaches the earth's face. The road is straight, and impossible. It is impossible. Do you really believe ships just lift out of the sea like that, and leave behind the curve of the world? Do you think they can just forget about gravity? No, that is not how the world works. That is not how life works, when one still lives. 

And so we remain here, a story even we now are starting to forget how to tell, with no more gravity left than a butterfly in a dream.

I still think about my starlit pool buried in a foreign land, just one shade beneath one so many layers of many-colored sediment. And her dark hair, and how her hands would reach out for me, and then at last the memory of hands animated by nothing but moth-spirit, still straining towards the flame. 

But nothing ever reaches me, and the world is unending.


End file.
